When Taylor died a huge part of me died. Taylor is gone. She no longer exists on this earth. I can not see her. I can not touch her, smell her, hear her, feel her. Well meaning statements like, "she is here with you," "she is your guardian angel," etc. make you feel isolated, remind you that you are alone in this. There is just nothing to say. For she is gone. Period. And a huge part of me is gone too. Dead. Just like my child.
The grief is too big. You lose your mind. Your ears pulse and you are deafened by sound of silence in your being while alternately wincing at the stabbing pain in one or both of your eardrums. Your eyes are open, but you don't see. Your mind swims, but you have no coherent thoughts. Your body is heavy, too heavy, but your arms and legs are weak. And your heart races. And you shake.
And this happens throughout the first year. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. And some things trigger it. And it increases. And you can't stop it.
No one "sees" what your are going through, for it is not visible. You appear perfectly intact. Everyone else has moved on. Even those who were profoundly affected by the immediate loss have gotten over it. They have a "new reality." And actually, so do I. And that new reality includes debilitating grief and anxiety, worry and fret. And fear. Of re-losing your mind. Your fragile mind that you have really never regained. You cling to the tiny bits of what you think are real.
and your heart beats out of your chest.
and your hands become cold and shake.
and your legs weak and ineffective.
you must remember to breathe.
you can not move.
the world spins.
And you think, OMFG, there is NO WAY this can happen to my child. Over my fucking dead body will my child lose her child.
It took me over six weeks to realize that my life depended on Luna's life ~ for Hayley's life depended on Luna's life ~ and my life depended on Hayley's life.